Olympus's Winchester
by steph.writes.fanfics
Summary: In 1994, the Winchesters accepted into their family the young son of John's estranged sister, Bethany. Now ten years later, this cousin-become-brother begins to unravel the secrets his mother kept from John all those years ago- such as the mysterious powers he inherited from his biological father, and the existence of his half-blooded half-brother over in the Big Apple. OC, SPNxPJO
1. Prologue

**IMPORTANT NOTES:**

**There have been some alterations to timelines so that the crossover may work.**

**I do not own Percy Jackson or Supernatural. All rights go to the original authors.**

**Also, I haven't actually finished reading Percy Jackson, I just really like the fanfiction and was excited to write one (oops?). Feel free to make any corrections to issues with this fanfic if you have read the series.**

DECEMBER, 1994

Dylan was frightened, cold, and hungry. His stomach grumbled angrily, barely audible over a fresh gust of howling wind. He tugged at his mother's sleeve, sniffling softly.

"Mommy, where are we going?" he asked quietly. He wondered to himself briefly what they were even doing away from the hospital. Last he'd heard, the doctor had put his mom on bed rest.

"Shh, Dylan," she hissed tiredly, "There's someone we need to find. Quickly." What little was left of her chestnut hair swayed slowly in the harsh breeze, and her teeth chattered loudly. Dylan loved his mom's hair. It was pale in color and pretty, and he was glad that his hair was like it, too. He was mournful over the fact that she'd lost so much of it, though. The doctor had explained to him that his mom was really sick now, so her hair had gotten tired and needed to rest while she got better. He'd said it was kind of like when the trees lost their leaves in the winter, and then they grew back all pretty and green in the spring. Dylan supposed it made sense.

Suddenly, the two of them were on a crumbling cement sidewalk, just outside of a dilapidated building. There was a lot of noise coming from inside of it, and it smelled sourly of the weird smoke-sticks Dylan's old step dad David liked so much. His nose crinkled. Dylan had hated David and his smoke-sticks, and was especially bothered by the weird words he used to call his mom that had seemed to bother her so much.

He watched as she pressed her nose against the dingy, front window, her shallow breaths leaving small ghosts of condensation on the translucent glass. With a small gasp, she hastily turned the knob and urged Dylan to follow her inside. "C'mon, baby, let's get you inside. You're shakin' like a dog," she insisted. Dylan bounced excitedly as he hugged his own frigid form.

"Did you find them, mommy?" he gushed. She nervously chewed her lip, and then pressed her right palm gently on the small of his back as they ventured through the doorway.

"I think so, baby," she whispered to him quietly, her voice hardly intelligible over the sounds of sweaty, middle-aged men hooting and hollering at each other. Dylan's stomach dropped dangerously. He didn't like these men at all. They reminded him too much of David and his friends. The men gave him scary, twisted smirks, and stared strangely at his mother.

"Whatcha doin' here, lil' man?" one to the left of him slurred, engulfing Dylan's shoulder in his clammy, meaty paw, "Gettin' an early start, eh?" There were a few lame barks of laughter, and Dylan's legs began to grow queasy.

"Let him go!" his mother demanded lamely, her voice too hoarse and meek to stir any sort of fear in its victims. The laughter grew to a dull roar, and the big man gave her a crooked, ugly grin.

"And what can you do to make me, lil' miss, hm?" he began to shake Dylan roughly, prying him from his mother's weak grip and drawing small trails of tears from his eyes. "I think I might jus' keep 'im around for a while. How does that sound, lil' man?" His gaze burned holes into Dylan's teary eyes.

"I-I..-" Dylan stuttered, his body in tremors, but was rescued by a new, stronger, masculine voice.

"Well, sir, 'little miss' is with me, so I suggest you listen and let the kid go." The big man's face paled, and he released Dylan with a snarl. Stumbling into his mother's frail side, he struggled to catch a glimpse of his savior.

He was a bulky man of average height, with an assertive brown gaze and a dark layer of prickly stubble. Behind him stood two boys, one no older than 12, and the other about 16-17 years in age. The younger one was awkward and lanky, with long brown hair and kind, light eyes. He seemed nervous and uncomfortable, and kept shooting the man that he was stood behind questioning looks. The older one wore a beaten, brown leather jacket and an alert expression, his eyes absent of question. Dylan felt oddly safe in their presence. Suddenly, his savior's gaze was fixed on his mom.

"Beth," the man acknowledged, nodding solemnly at her, "it's been too long. Could I buy you a drink?" Dylan's mother smiled bitterly, her eyes teary for reasons he couldn't understand.

"You see your sister for the first time in seven years, and the first thing you do is offer her a drink?" she asked quietly, then snorted, "You haven't changed a bit, Johnny."Dylan found himself creasing his eyebrows in confusion. Sister? Was this his uncle? He tugged urgently at his mom's coat sleeve for the second time that night.

"Mommy, what's going on?" he whined, and suddenly the man's gaze was on him instead. Beth stooped down to her small son's level, staring straight into the sweet blue eyes that she adored most about him.

"This is your Uncle John, baby. I need to have a...a grownup conversation with him," she explained quietly, glancing nervously at her brother every now and then to gage his reaction. She'd never told him about her son before. Gulping bravely, she gestured to the two boys standing behind her brother. "Why don't you go meet your cousins, Sam and Dean? They're real nice, or at least they were the last time I saw them, itty bitty things that they were." Dylan hesitated, then nodded slowly, bounding over to the two teens obediently. John nodded his understanding.

"Take your cousin back to our table, I'm gonna stay at the bar with your aunt for a while," John ordered, turning to face his two sons.

"Yes sir," the older one said, and awkwardly took the small boy's outstretched hand in his own.

"I'm Dylan, and I'm five. How old are you guys?" Beth could hear her son say as the tree cousins walked away. Her lips twitched up into a smile before she remembered why she was there in the first place. She felt John's gaze on her as she sat at the nearest stool, clutching her heavy trench coat closer to her small frame.

"I'm real sick, John," she whispered sadly, looking solemnly into his eyes, "I don't have too long." John fixed his sister with a calculating gaze. He'd noticed how much smaller and weaker she'd gotten from the last time he'd seen her the moment that drunken bastard had managed to get that kid out of her grip. Twenty-six year old Beth would've kicked his ass to the curb.

"Seven years, Beth," he began quietly, "Seven years ago I tried to get you to join us out on the road, and you refused," he chewed the inside of his cheek as an awful, bitter taste filled his mouth, "Since then you've had a kid, and gotten sick who the hell knows how with who the hell knows what, but never thought to call me about either of the above. And now, now you track me down to a run-down bar in the middle of nowhere- which, by the way, I'm still curious as to how you did- and why? Why now, Beth?" She crumbled under her brother's gaze, her face growing red with embarrassment. With a deep breath and a sudden stroke of bravery, she looked him straight into his soul.

"Like I said, John," she replied evasively, "I haven't got much time. The cancer- that's what the hell it is- has spread too much too fast. But him-" she gestured to Dylan, who was elbow deep in a burger and steak fries between his two older cousins "-he's got all the time in the world." John suddenly understood.

"The kid. You want me to take care of him," he confirmed, and Beth nodded firmly. John snorted and took a big swig of the whiskey he'd ordered when they'd sat down. "That's real good, Beth. I have trouble enough keeping my own boys fed and dressed-"

"Through fraud?" she snapped, "Through scams? I'm sure your merry little band of con artists and thieves could accept a new member, John." She was red-faced and breathing unevenly, clutching her head as though sustaining an awful headache. John glared at her through another swig of whiskey, his cheeks burning with anger. "I'm sorry, John. I really am. It's not like that, it's just.. Dylan's not like all the other boys. He's special. He wouldn't take to orphanages and foster care like any normal kid his age," John chuckled drily.

"No kid takes to that kind of livin', Beth. They endure," he said in monotone, "I feel awful for ya, I really do, but I can't just-"

"Please, John," Beth begged, and he suddenly noticed the underlying desperation in her voice, "He won't survive out there, with those things you hunt! They-they-" she stopped suddenly, face flushed with shame, but John's interest had peaked at the mention of his career.

"They what, Beth?" he demanded. Her eyes flashed with fear, and she seized him suddenly by the collar. Though her grip was weak, and her fingers so bony they'd snap like twigs at the smallest of impacts, John was shocked nonetheless.

"They chase him, John," she said quietly through her guarded lips, "They hunt him down like an animal. It's because of who his daddy is." Realizing what she was doing, she released her brother and sat properly in her seat. John's curiosity, however, was not yet sated.

"And who is his father?" he questioned adamantly. Beth's eyes darted about the wooden bar-top wildly, her clammy hands wringing the belt of her coat as though she were about to blast like a jet from her seat simply from nerves.

"Let's call him Pete, ok?" she whispered, and besides his confusion, John nodded quickly, "Well, Pete..Pete is relatively well-known in the monster community. They've got his scent down par. But the monsters know Pete so well, that they realize huntin' him down and rippin' him up would be impossible. H-he's.. a bit of a.. powerful hunter. Well respected," John resisted the urge to interrupt, his mind racing with questions. "Well, Dylan's got at least half of his daddy in him, at least that's how it works last I checked," she laughed coldly, "and the monsters can smell it in him. They know they can't get his daddy, but they can get him. It's the next best thing." She exhaled in relief, feeling as though her explanation sufficed her brother's question well enough.

"Just who exactly is Pete? Would I know him by name?" John asked, keeping the rest of his questions bottled up.

"You probably would, if you pay enough attention to the world around you," Beth said with a knowing smile, "But I can't tell you. What me and Pete had lasted two, three weeks tops. I haven't seen him since. I reckon he doesn't even know Dylan exists at all." The last of what she'd said was lie, but no conversation about "Pete" would be squeaky clean, no matter the situation.

"But the monsters go after him, even though Pete couldn't care less? Why? It doesn't fit, Beth," John stated simply.

"True enough, but just the scent of Pete drives them crazy. They hate it. Any trace of him they can get, they want gone," Beth replied easily.

Finally, they'd reached the point of the conversation where John needed to make a decision, one that may or may not be heavily influenced by the pleading gaze of his dying little sister.

"Please, John," she whispered, "you're our only hope. He needs you, that little boy is your nephew. You can't just turn your back on your own flesh and blood, Johnny." She was so tired, and so weak. John just wanted to hug her, tell her how much he's missed her, but he valued the tough exterior he'd made for himself too stubbornly to do so. Not so stubbornly, however, to say what he did next.

"Alright," John agreed with a sigh, "I'll do it." Beth's face split into the biggest, teary smile he'd ever seen.

"Oh, thank you Johnny," she gasped, throwing her arms around her big brother's neck, "Thank you so, so much." Slowly, John wrapped his arms around her small torso, patting her back robotically, though the sweet and caring notion of it was still received.

"You're welcome, Beth," he said so softly, she hardly caught it. She pulled away, her smile switched suddenly to bitter, and then began to unclasp something from around her neck. It was a thickly chained, silver necklace, from which hung a chunky, black stone that glinted with sapphire speckles.

"This here necklace is the only thing, other than Dylan himself, that I got out of my relationship with his father," she explained, handing it to John, "I want you to give it to him."

"Why me?" John asked, "Why not do it yourself, when you say goodbye?" Beth frowned, the red stains on her face gleaming with fresh tears.

"Because I won't be saying goodbye," she replied, and before John could protest, she explained, "If I try and say goodbye, I'll never leave, and.. and this is the best thing I have left to do for him."

"He'll be devastated," John said, "He won't listen to reason, won't listen to me. He'll need a goodbye, Beth." She managed a weak smile.

"Dylan is my baby boy, and I'll always love him. Always. He knows that," she said, and her lower lip began to wobble. "He's a strong kid, he'll do ok," She patted John's hand warmly, then gave him a final, gentle kiss on the cheek. "Goodbye, John."

And with that, Beth stood up and left, the only trace left to the Winchesters of her existence being a silver chain clutched loosely in John's calloused hands, and a heartbroken little boy.

**UGH SOOO MUCH DIALOGUE**

**To answer some questions you might have:**

**1\. Who is Pete?**

**A: You shall see, if you haven't already guessed it. (Hint: what does the name Dylan mean?)**

**2\. OMG Dylan's mom just left like that? Why wouldn't she just say goodbye?**

**A: Three reasons- One: She was pretty broken up about having to leave him already. Despite him being unexpected, she loves her son. Two: "Tough love" is a good way to build character. She knew that saying goodbye would only weaken him as a person, something like the sudden disappearance of your mother is like: "BAM! Welcome to the big kid world, time to pull up your pants and whip out the shotgun." (sounds messed up and even more confusing, but yeah) Three: I am lazy, and this chapter was getting too long. (I'm sorry!)**

**3\. How DID she find him?**

**A: Hunters talk, and she knows about the grapevine too. She just poked around a bit and found answers.**

**4\. Um, how come she was just able to get up and LEAVE the hospital… without ANYONE NOTICING?**

**A: Beth is a determined woman. Despite everything she's been through, she can get around. She's been in the hospital for a while and is pretty close with a lot of the staff, so they eventually agreed to let her out an hour or two after she wore them down with an explanation.**

**That's a wrap, I guess. See you crazy kids in Chapter 1.**

**~ Steph**


	2. Chapter One

**I do not own Supernatural or Percy Jackson. All rights go to their original authors.**

2004, TEN YEARS LATER

Dylan woke with a jolt, his face dripping with perspiration and his mouth gaping with the force of his own frightened pants. Last night he'd dreamt of demons with blackened eyes and twisted, malicious grins. He scratched absently at the scar above his left eye he'd gotten hunting last summer in Texas, almost reminiscently.

His coarse, white bed sheets were proven even more flimsy and useless than usual when he whipped them off of his body with a simple, quick flick of his wrist, the creaky frame of his bed groaning like an empty stomach as he swiveled his legs off of its side. He took a moment to remove his trademark, navy baseball cap and clutch a generous amount of his curly hair within his fingers to tug at. _These dreams are driving me insane, _he thought to himself, chewing at an already tender section of his lower lip anxiously, _I need a walk. _His head was pounding. He shouldn't be roaming the corridors of the boarding home alone in such a state, knowing what he did about what was really out there, but his feet disobeyed logic. He'd shrugged on his favorite, red flannel jacket, and was out the door within moments.

There was an uneasiness in his stomach. He was painfully aware of the fact that he'd been nauseous from the moment he'd woken up (he could still feel the demon's jagged blade running morbid lines through his skin), but this was somehow different.

When a cloud of frosted breath pooled before his face, he stopped walking with a jolt of realization. He knew for a fact that, no matter how faulty and cheapened the electrical heaters running throughout the dated building were, it was impossible that the air was cold enough for such a thing. It was early November, for crying out loud. The dim light of the long, lonely corridor began to flicker ominously, confirming his suspicions.

Dylan swore under his breath. He'd kill for an iron crowbar and some rock salt right about now. There was a scream from some distance away, and he swallowed back what he assumed to be traces of escaped vomit at the sound. Ignoring how disgusting that was in spite of the current situation at hand, Dylan sprinted down the hall in the general direction of the sound.

"_Damnit, Helen!_" someone exclaimed. The beaten soles of Dylan's converse screeched as he skidded to a halt. "_This is the fifth vase this week!_"

"I-I..I'm sorry, Jack, really! It's just-" the new voice stopped abruptly, and footsteps growing ever closer to where Dylan stood shot sparks of unease up his spine.

"_What the hell are you doing out of bed?_" Dylan hardly had the decency not to squeal like a surprised child at the intimidating growl coming from so near to his neck. _Abel_, he realized, _the surly old drunk who keeps the boarding house. _

"I heard screaming," he replied easily, white like a sheet and dizzy like devastated remains of forestry caught in the grasp of a hurricane.

"You should've stayed in bed," Abel hissed, snatching Dylan by the shoulder and mumbling dark, angry things about the "ungrateful teen children mucking up his establishment." Dylan had half a mind to remind him that this was a seedy boarding complex attached to a school for troubled youth, and not the freaking Buckingham Palace.

"Where are you taking me?" Dylan asked firmly, suppressing the worry in his voice. His worry was most definitely not over the wrath of Abel the Atrocious, but rather the potential angry spirit lurking the grounds of the school he'd been in attendance to for a meager two weeks.

Abel grunted and shoved Dylan into the room where the screams had first come from. Inside was a frazzled looking middle-aged woman blushing over the remains of a pastel blue vase, and a stout, red-faced man glaring intensely at the intruders in his doorway.

"I thought I heard you stumbling through the corridors, Abel, you absolute _pig_," the man spat, "Shouldn't you be off somewhere moppin' up piles of your own stinkin' vomit from the floorboards? Or maybe, I don't know, _doing your job_?"

"The hell you think I'm doin', draggin' this kid into the room by his shirtsleeve?" Abel snapped in reply, tightening his grip painfully on Dylan's shoulder. "Sure as hell ain't because it's fun, Dedrickson." The man known as Dedrickson's malicious gaze zeroed in on him at that moment. A spark of recognition played across his stubbly, sweaty face before he turned momentarily towards the room's second occupant.

"_Scram, Helen! _I'll talk to _you _later," he exclaimed, and didn't make another move until the kind-faced woman had completed her hasty evacuation of the dingy room. Once she was gone, a smirk played on his thin lips.

"We got ourselves a sleepwalker, huh?" the pudgy man said as he made his way over, leaning so close to Dylan's face that his hot, stenching breath burned against his very flesh. From this close, Dylan could see the red veins scattered like a jigsaw puzzle throughout the discolored whites of the man's beady, dark brown eyes. _He isn't the cleanest slate himself_, he thought with a snort. "Somethin' funny to you, boy?" Dedrickson's glare intensified, his eyes hard as he whipped out a cigar and lighter. "I'll tell ya somethin', _Winchester_-" his name was spat like a bad shot of whiskey as the switch of the lighter flipped with a muted _click_ "-I ain't never had issues with somebody who's been here only two weeks, but I know all about you," He blew a ring of smoke into Dylan's face, making the boy's nose crinkle in disgust. "I've been watching you, and I'm sick of hearing Abel whine about all of the bullshit you pull under his care."

Dylan's breath hitched. He knew this speech. This was the _beat it, dirtbag! _speech, and, oh, was Dean going to have his neck when he found out. More importantly, however, he had the distinct feeling that there was a job to be done in this school, and he was intent on finishing it.

"Sir-" he halted at the foreign feeling of a sweaty palm slapping him harshly across the cheek. He was frozen, shocked.

"I don't wanna hear it, _Winchester_. I know your story, seen your records. There's red marks up in there like they were lightin' up a goddamn Christmas tree when they wrote 'em. But that don't mean _squat _to me, because once we're through with you here-" Dylan seemed to have come to his senses by then, as he felt warm droplets of blood drip slowly over the corner of his lip.

"You _slapped _me," he exclaimed, "you _dick_!" Before a second slap could reach his face, Dylan's hand shot up and caught it, bending the man's wrist crudely. He watched with satisfaction as that stupid, smug smirk dissolved from his face completely.

"Let the _hell _go of me!" he demanded.

"You _slapped _me," Dylan repeated, not willing to admit that harm came from human hands as well as those of monsters. "You _slapped _me like a rabid _animal_!" It was that moment that Abel decided to come over and smack Dylan forcefully upside the head, forcing him to release Dedrickson in favor of nursing his sore skull.

"Get the _hell off of this campus_!" Dedrickson screeched, "and don't you _ever _come crawling back, you _stupid piece of shit_! _You hear me, Winchester?!_" But Dylan was already racing back to his room, passing by the speculative faces of strangers new and old whom he'd hardly ever gotten to know. If there was a haunt here, so be it. He was sure that there'd be hunter besides himself passing through the area soon enough. He just knew that, with the anger he was feeling towards exhibit a of human waste back in the room he'd just fled from, he wouldn't be able to happily fulfill the obligation of stepping in and "saving the day" as he'd been raised to.

He threw absently into his travel bag several faded pairs of jeans, his hand-me-down leather jacket, his old, oversized Metallica shirt gifted to him by Dean on his 12th birthday (stolen freshly from the nearest clothes shop), and then topped the pile with the pair of boots he liked to wear out hunting. Remembering it last second, he added to the growing stack of belongings the gun he'd been sleeping with beneath his pillow (to the wide-eyed horror of his confused roommate, that had been feigning sleep the moment Dylan came running like hell through the door), and then zipped the bag shut with a final, frustrated sigh. He closed his eyes tightly.

"_Shit!_" he swore under his breath, wondering to himself what the hell he'd just done. "_The hell am I supposed to tell Dean?_" At this point, he was prying open one of the room's shabby windows, which glided the rest of the way ajar smoothly once broken free of its seal of mold. He didn't feel like making the shameful hike out the front door past all of those people he hardly knew- especially when they'd be accompanied by a smug looking Dedrickson with a red, possibly sprained wrist. He cracked the smallest of smiles at that thought, then hopped out the window. His room wasn't that far from the ground, and he soon found his feet planted firmly in the coarse, dead blades of grass that vaguely resembled a front lawn.

It wasn't more than two hours after he'd dialed up his brother's number on the nearest payphone that a sleek, black, 67' Impala pulled up in front of the skeevy diner he was holed up in. Dean kicked his way out of his baby angrily, stomping towards the front door of the diner with a dangerous look on his face. Dylan shrinked in his seat. Fear gripped at his beating heart. _I'm really in for it now_, he thought. _That slap was nothing compared to what I'm about to hear_.

"God_damnit_, Dylan!" Dean exclaimed, slamming his open palms against the table of the booth his brother had settled himself in. The small cup of coffee Dylan had purchased to appease the nosy waitress behind the register jumped on the tabletop upon impact, spewing droplets of black liquid everywhere. "How is it that, no matter _where _I put you, you always seem find some _stupid_ way to _screw up_ and get yourself booted out of there like some sort of fuckin' reject _Idol _contestant!?" before Dylan could reply, parting his mouth briefly to speak, Dean continued, "It's like a freakin' soap opera with you, I swear! 'I couldn't read the course work, I'm dyslexic!' Really? Well, golly gee, I somehow remember reading that on the papers we give your teachers! In fact, I bet that means that you could have _easily used that to explain it to them_. Or, this one's great too: 'He swung first! It's not my fault the stupid douche got the wrong idea.' Is that so, Dylan? Then, here's an idea: _don't. Swing. Back! _In fact, I bet that advice could've helped real well, just now, when you managed to get kicked out of the _fifth school this year!_"

Dylan sighed. He understood Dean had reason to be upset, but he sometimes felt as though his brother wasn't thinking of _him_ in situations such as this. "Dean, if you'd just listen-"

"Listen?!" Dean exclaimed, with a dark chuckle, "Isn't that what I've been doin' this entire time, watchin' ya while dad ran off to God knows where _completely out of the blue_ the past two years? In fact, if you'd listen to _me _for just a second, you'd know that he went off on a hunting trip two weeks ago and has not said a _single_ _thing _since. No phone call, no weird, indirect messages, nada. He's just..gone!" Dylan was silent.

"Gone?" he whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?" Dean's reddened face cooled in color as he began to realize how his little brother must be feeling. Dylan was rarely quiet, so Dean was reasonably unnerved by the softness of his voice.

"Because you were in school, _dumbass_," Dean teased, in that odd tone that was his way of saying he was sorry. Dylan understood regardless. "Don't get me wrong-" Dean's lips curled up into a snarl as he looked heatedly into empty space "-I wanna kill the sorry sonofabitch that laid a hand on my baby brother first chance I get, but I'm still pretty ticked that we're having this conversation for a fifth time."

"I know," Dylan sighed, "I'm sorry. I'll try harder next time. But that doesn't change the fact that you _really _need to explain to me what the hell's going on with dad being missing." Dean smiled softly.

"'Course. Just let me get in an order of food, I'm freakin' starving," Dean moaned. Dylan snorted.

"When aren't you?" Dean just shot him a playful glare and grabbed his brother in a headlock. "The hell Dean?!" He was straining to speak around his brother's unfairly large arms, but he was laughing nonetheless.

"Missed you, baby brother," Dean chuckled.

"Missed you too, dickhead."

**A/N: Ok, I honestly was not expecting to get any reviews when I posted this, so I really just wanted to thank everybody who left one. It's good to know someone reads this stuff, haha.**

**: Thanks, I'm glad you liked it! Well here's a new chapter now. Hope you found it good. Also, you should expect to see A LOT of Supernatural in the fanfic (but of course, some of the camp, too. This IS a crossover)**

**DancingWolves101: maayybe...*awkward winking*...haha, anyway, I'm really happy that you liked it!**

**Br0kenThOrn** **: You'll definitely be seeing a lot of interaction between the camp and all of the monsters that the Winchesters hunt. Also, I hope you read on regardless of who Dylan's dad turns out to be.**

**CheynotShy : Thanks, that's awesome to hear! :D**

**ww1990ww : Although I've already decided the story starts season one of Supernatural, I'm not sure whether I should have Dylan be older or younger than the characters in PJO. But that's a good point.**

**matioschka &amp; sweetchick621 : Here's some more now!**

**Hopefully, I'll see even more reviews like these in the future. Thanks so much! :)**

**Also, a lot of swearing this chapter, huh? Haha, this crossover **_**is **_**half Supernatural, so I guess it's to be expected. And that's why I rated this story T for Teen!**

**SOME POTENTIAL QUESTIONS CLEARED UP:**

**Dedrickson is "Exhibit A of Human Waste"'s last name, Jack is his first. That's why Helen called him that.**

**What was she doing there in the first place that she broke "the fifth vase that week"? If you were curious, I'd like to imagine that Helen was on the board house's cooking staff, and had been experiencing some of the effects of the haunting. She was shaken up and coming to Dedrickson with a complaint about the heat, and she dropped "the fifth vase that week". So yeah, there's Helen's story, if you were curious. :)**

**Dylan and Dean refer to each other as "brothers" because, after all of the time they've spent together, and everything they've gone through over the years as a team (with Sam as well, of course), their feelings towards each other have progressed past estranged cousin to something more like long-lost brother. **

**If you have any other things you'd like cleared up, leave a review and I'll give you an answer! Hopefully I can start to get these updates a bit more regular soon.**

**~Steph**


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